Sarah Helen Whitman

The sweet imperious mouth, whose haughty valor Defied all portents of impending doom.

Star of resplendent front! Thy glorious eye Shines on me still from out yon clouded sky.

Tell him I lingered alone on the shore, Where we parted, in sorrow, to meet nevermore; The night-wind blew cold on my desolate heart But colder those wild words of doom,—“Ye must part.”

Raven from the dim dominions On the Night's Plutonian shore, Oft I hear thy dusky pinions Wave and flutter round my door— See the shadow of thy pinions Float along the moonlit floor.

Again the fair azalea bows Beneath her snowy crest.

And still the aster greets us, as we pass, With her faint smile,—among the withered grass.

The summer skies are darkly blue, The days are still and bright, And Evening trails her robes of gold Through the dim halls of Night.

The shy little may-flower weaves her nest; But the south wind blows o'er the fragrant loam, And betrays the path to her woodland home.

Enchantress of the stormy seas, Priestess of Night's high mysteries!

Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow, Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground, With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow, The gentian nods, in dewy slumbers bound.

Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning Beneath dark clouds along the horizon rolled, Till the slant sunbeams, through the fringes raining, Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold.

When summer gathers up her robes of glory, And, like a dream of beauty, glides away.